The Spanked Wives Club (11 page)

Only this time it was Hunter’s scent, and not her husband’s.

Hunter’s hand touched her hair, then his fist clenched in it, the roots stinging a little.

“When I come, you’re going to swallow every drop, Lacey.”

She met his eyes, her mouth still full of him. She saw compassion, lust, and possessiveness in Hunter’s dark gaze. His sly little smile said it all though.

Yes.

Lacey took him deep then, and she worked up to a frenetic pace, working that thick cock with lips, tongue and teeth, Hunter using her hair as a bridle and a guide, something that made her pussy drip even more.

His.

“Deeper, faster,” Hunter said, his voice more of a rasp than a tone, his fist squeezing tighter, her scalp burning now. She complied, her lips numbing as she went faster, closing her eyes, concentrating on bringing him to that pinnacle, this first time so exciting yet so nerve-wracking all at once.

What if this scares him off? Did we push too hard?

Hunter’s low, rumbling groan seemed to answer that though. His balls, heavy in her palm, suddenly drew tight, the thrusting shaft swelling still further, and before he could make another sound, hot seed filled her mouth, the heavy head of his cock butting against the back of her throat repeatedly.

Swallowing hard, once, twice, she gently licked him, loving that intimate connection as he came down, the corded, hard muscles of his thighs shuddering and twitching, his low murmur each time she caressed the heavy weight of his balls. Then he appeared to reach his limit, pulling away, his softening member parting her lips with a wet sound.

She looked up at them both then, the bright sun high in the sky, Hunter, tucking himself back into his jeans. Troy’s arms were crossed, a broad grin betraying the pride-filled approval hidden behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses.

“Jesus Christ, she’s a good girl,” Hunter said, face flushed, his hand just touching her lips. She impulsively kissed the roughness of his knuckle.

Troy lowered the glasses down the bridge of his nose. “Hunt, you have
no
idea.”

Chapter Eight

D
owntown, such as it was in a cozy hamlet like White Valley, was buzzing. The familiar low-level anticipation that always preceded an event like that on tap for Saturday. Such anticipation was one of the reasons there was rarely a shortage of people eager to move to the place.

The Council made sure to keep tight control of that. Mostly.

Ford eased the Tahoe down Columbia Street, which served as White Valley’s equivalent of ‘Main Street.’ Columbia ran along the northern edge of Preserve Park, one of Ford’s favorite features of an endlessly fascinating community. The park was like an oasis, surrounded on three sides by mixed use, modern construction, roadways bordering it to the north, east, and west. The towering Douglas firs that dominated the space cast pleasing shadows across the street, lending a welcome — if temporary — refuge from the blazing summer sun. Columbia was lined with restaurants, and boutique shopping, numerous people crowded around tables along the sidewalk across the street from the park. There was even a Starbucks there, though it had taken very careful negotiation with The Council and the owners to make that particular deal possible.

Off to Hunter’s right, he passed what was perhaps the one incongruous sight on Columbia Street — Warren Electronics, an old, narrow building shoehorned in between the gleaming contemporary glass and steel of a bank, and a designer shoe outlet. Grandfathered in to the new, modern “town square” feel the city planners were going for, Warren Electronics had been here since the founding — and it wasn’t about to go anywhere anytime soon if its stubborn owners had anything to say about it.

Then Ford found what he was looking for, the attractive woman stepping out of Warren Electronics and into the afternoon sun. Falon.

Wearing only dark gray yoga pants, the form-fitting tank with a white sports bra underneath not quite deemphasizing the generous swell of her breasts, she was looking down at her phone, her thumbs working the screen fast. Her golden hair was parted in the back into two thick braids, a most fetching look for the usually professionally put-together reporter.

Producer, dickhead.

A pair of white cords hung down from one hand as she stood in front of the door, seemingly oblivious to anyone else around her.

Ford pulled the Tahoe over to the curb next to her, rolling down his passenger side window. “It’s illegal to loiter, Ms. Moore.”

Her head shot up, eyes wide. “What?” Then she spotted Ford and she gave him a tentative smile. “Uh, hi, Sheriff.”

Ford slipped his glasses down his nose, peering at her over the frames. “Something break?”

“I don’t… what do you mean?” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but her smile didn’t falter.

“Not gonna find your scoop in that place,” Ford said, taking off his glasses and waving them toward the store behind her. “What are you up to?”

Color flushed high in her cheeks for a moment, then her eyebrows shot up. “Oh! That…” She held up the white cords. “Ear buds. Mine finally crapped out. Been meaning to get them replaced — can’t stand to run without ‘em.” She stuffed her phone in her pocket, the rectangular shape clear against the fabric, his gaze for one illicit second taking in the way her tight pants molded to the enticing rise of her pubis.

He knew a man, Craig Holter, who lived two doors down from him who required his wife to wear tights so snug, you could make out every millimeter of the shape of her sex. Ford enjoyed passing them on the sidewalk, Craig giving him a knowing nod, his wife managing a pinched smile despite her scarlet cheeks…

Not now, asshole.

“You’re… running? Aren’t you leaving tomorrow, Ms. Moore?”

“Sure, but it doesn’t matter.” She tilted her head, a knowing glint in her gaze. “If a girl can’t keep to her routine, she’ll forget all about said routine.”

Ford laughed, slipping his glasses back on. The savory scent of pizza wafting over from Paglianos, a pizzeria half a block behind them, had his stomach growling. “You hungry? I’ll buy.”

“Not going to get thin enough to make anchor if I skip a run for pizza, no matter how good it smells.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Sorry, Sheriff, I’ll have to pass.”

Ford cocked a thumb at her, drumming fingers on the top of the steering wheel. “You know what else you shouldn’t do? Say no to a cop. Come on, humor me.”

She looked down, shaking her head. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

“No, you can’t.” He unlocked the door. “Get in. This won’t hurt a bit.”

* * *

“T
his place is… unbelievable.” Falon, seated cross-legged on the faded marble of the bench looked around her, as wide-eyed as a child.

“Food’s pretty good too,” Ford said, blowing on his piping hot piece of pizza. “Now, eat.”

Falon gave him a little mock frown, but tore into her slice of vegetarian, her long hum of pure pleasure and closed eyes saying more about her verdict on the Pagliano’s pie than any mere words could.

“I don’t know how you eat that shit,” he muttered.

She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “Gotta keep the bod in shape for you
men
.”

Not a thing wrong with this girl’s bod. If anything, she needs to eat more.

Ford took a seat across from Falon on his own bench. They’d found one of the numerous roundabouts that featured marble slabs for sitting, the benches surrounding a simple rock walled water feature fed from a stream that meandered down from the upper reaches of the park. In truth, Preserve Park ran well back into the foothills far above town, eventually merging into a dense stand of timber that itself became the forest which blanketed this section of the eastern slopes of the Cascades. Nobody really knew where the Park ended and the forest began — and the residents of White Valley liked it that way.

“Haven’t you ever seen a park before?” Ford asked between mouthfuls of pepperoni and sausage. “They have those where you’re from, don’t they?”

“Portland? Heck yeah — they have the biggest urban park in the nation. Bet you didn’t know that, Mister Backwoods Provincial.”

Ford rolled his eyes, covering his mouth with a napkin. “I’d
never
profess to know more than a sophisticated big city reporterette.”

“
Reporterette
? That’s reporter — and I’m not one. Yet.”

“But you will be after this, right?”

Chewing her food, Falon only looked at him, her gaze steady.

This chick didn’t pass Bluffing 101 in J-school, apparently.

“You still planning on leaving tomorrow?” Ford swallowed down the last of his slice, and took a swig from the bottle of water he’d retrieved from the Tahoe. The water was warm from sitting in the truck, but he was cheap. He wasn’t about to pay five bucks for a bottle of pop from Pags’.

“Like I said, if I don’t find what I need, I’m gone.” She winked at him. “My editor won’t like the expense report if I decide to stay longer. The Redwood’s not exactly cheap.”

“Cheryl Sanders has been running that place for too long. That woman gouges, I swear. She calls it the ‘out-of-towner tax.’ Sorry about that.”

Falon shrugged. “I’m not paying… but it makes me wonder. Is that another way this town keeps outsiders at bay?”

It was Ford’s turn to stay silent. He still didn’t have a bead on Falon Moore. There was more to this girl than met the eye, and frankly, it was starting to piss him off that he hadn’t zeroed in on it yet.

Pissed off… or intrigued?

She craned her head up, scanning the treetops far above them. “I checked out the layout of the town before I drove here, but the map didn’t do this justice. Not even close. Forest Park in P-town is huge, but this… this is something else entirely.”

“One of our little secrets.”

“Among many?” Falon picked up another slice from the open pizza box next to her on the bench. “I shouldn’t, but this is fucking awesome. Pardon my French.”

“‘Fucking awesome’ is
French
? There you go again, lording your superior intellect over the hayseed cop.”

Falon laughed then,
really
laughed, and Ford wasn’t prepared for how much he liked hearing it.

“You can be charming, when you feel like it, Sheriff.”

“I can be even more charming if you give me what I want.”

Falon put her pizza down, dropping one foot to the ground as she wiped her fingers with a white paper napkin. “What
do
you want, Sheriff?”

“First, I want you to stop calling me that.”

She held up her napkin, the breeze waving it like a flag of surrender. “Sorry, sorry,
Ford
.”

“Second, I want you to tell me what you’ve found out on your little trip here.”

“Jesus, you get right to the point, don’t you?”

“I’ve already answered your questions.” Ford closed the lid on his pizza box. “So I want you to answer a couple of mine. Why are you still in town?”

“It’s a beautiful place!” Her earnestness was as genuine as a three dollar bill. “I want to get all the mileage I can out of this trip. Portland’s not going anywhere.” She frowned. “My hellhole job certainly isn’t going
anywhere
either. Why not spend one more day in alpine Heaven, right?”

“Just because I joke about being a hick doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”

Falon stood, her hands at the back of her hips as she stretched backward. “Helluva park, but those benches are murder on the butt.”

“You need to toughen it up then.”

“I beg your pardon?” She fixed him with a glare, but the spark he saw in her eyes was far from anger. Was it curiosity? Interest?

What’s your fucking angle, Ms. Moore?

“I said you need to toughen up your ass. There are far more trying things for a girl’s backside around here than a marble bench.”

He was pushing her, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to see how she’d react. Ford hoped she wouldn’t be predictable. Though he loved predictable when it came to crime, he hated it in his women.

His?

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean, Sheriff?” An edge had crept into her voice, even though mirth danced in her blue eyes. She was fucking with him.

“I think you know exactly what that means. If you’ve done half the research you say you have on this town, then you have some idea as to what goes on here, the life the people here have built.”

“Maybe you’d like to tell me more?”

“Is this another interview, Ms. Moore?”

She shook her head, moving her hands to her waist. “Now why would I do such a thing? You already answered all of my questions, didn’t you?” She touched her lip with one slender finger. “Oh wait — you didn’t do anything of the kind.”

“So you’re trying again?” Ford balled up the napkin, dropping it next to the leftovers of his pizza and flipping the box closed. “Let’s talk then, Ms. Moore. I’ll go first. Did you know this park is the trail-head for almost two hundred miles of hiking routes?”